


An Offer of Forever

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Winning is Easy; Governing's Harder [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4094515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attempting to buck the tradition of imperfect timing can sometimes yield unexpected, but altogether wonderful, results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Offer of Forever

By this point, the actual act of it should be as simple as breathing. Practically a formality, really, considering how many people already assume, from the nobles at court to their own subordinates, that they are already…

True, Alistair would like to be, already. He has even tried, in the past, to make it so. Little things always stop him. Inopportune timing. The lack of right words. Mostly it has to do with his own fears. What if Aeron thinks he’s joking? What if she refuses? (Silly thoughts, of course—Alistair knows that, same as he knows the pattern of her footsteps, but knowing doesn’t make the thought feel less real.) There is, too, his consideration of her past. He has heard the story of her betrothal, told in tones that highlighted just how much she _did not_ enjoy the prospect of almost marrying someone she didn’t know.

But…this would be different, wouldn’t it? It isn’t just that they merely know each other. Alistair loves her, has only grown in his love for her since that first inopportune kiss in Redcliffe, and she…

Aeron put up with his dumb jokes, saw through the wall of his self-deprecating humor. After he told her the truth of his heritage, she treated him no differently. She supported him through first his grief over losing Duncan, then again as he dealt with the heartache that came with putting Cailan to rest. Aeron was there, too, when his hope for a family was destroyed by the sister who wanted no part of him. When Eamon pressed Alistair to become the king he didn’t want to be, it was Aeron who gave him the courage to push back, wasn’t it? She was one of the first to never make him feel like an unwanted burden or a child who needed coddling—one of the first, really, to make Alistair even consider that he deserved better than the way he’d been treated practically all his life.

Even now, close to two years on, Aeron’s smile still sends a warm rush through his heart. That he almost lost her completely the day they slew the Archdemon… Well, Alistair doesn’t dwell on it very often. Not with so many other wonderful things he can turn his attention to, like the way she curls into him at night or how she looks in the first light of morning; the determined glow in her eyes when they spar; the taste of her, the warmth of her skin against his. Alistair was never one quite so devoted to his religious studies, but if asked to speak of the Warden-Commander, the fervor in his words would make him seem the most pious of pilgrims.

Maker help him, but he does love her so, and it makes him all the more nervous to even consider…

“Aeron, you are… No—wait. Aeron, I love you, and there isn’t anyone I’d rather—” Alistair gives a small huff, clears his throat. “Aeron, it’s been almost two years that we’ve been together and, in that time… No, that’s not right, either—!”

Anxiety floods his veins. He paces the length of their bedroom, wrings his hands. The speech he has been planning for weeks falls apart each time he runs through the words. A sound of frustration escapes him. He runs his fingers through his hair. This has to work. This has to be _perfect_. If he can just pull himself together, find some semblance of confidence—

Alistair sighs heavily, halts his pacing. His gaze wanders to the single red rose and the little black box sitting on the table by his side of the bed. They do little to put him at ease.

“Maybe this is a stupid plan.”

Maybe he should just be content with having her at his side. Not that he isn’t. He is! Truly, he is! The simple pleasure of waking up next to Aeron is one he would trade for nothing. No amount of promised glory could steer his heart away from hers. Why do they need some fancy ceremony to confirm that? To trade vows? They have already seen each other through so much and come through it stronger.

And yet…

Aeron would look so very lovely in a wedding dress, wouldn’t she? With her hair braided and decorated in spring’s most colorful flowers? With the blush of love on her cheeks and the sun on her skin…

Alistair straightens up. He takes in a deep breath.

“Aeron—”

Footsteps break his attention. They are heavy, hurried—not her steps. Not her. Alistair steps into the hallway and has to hold out his arms to stop the Warden rushing headlong in his direction.

“Whoa! Hey. Hey now. Calm down. What’s going on? Why the rush?”

The Warden immediately draws herself up straight in his presence. “Alist—-uh, Ser—Constable—!”

“Relax. Just tell me what the problem is.”

“Ah—well—um—” She relaxes her posture slightly, tries to catch her breath. “It’s the commander. She was sparring with one of the newer recruits and—”

“Oh, no…” Alistair frowns. “How badly did they get hurt this time? I keep telling her she needs to take it easy on you lot—”

“No—” interrupts the Warden. “The commander, she… The recruit went to practice a shield bash maneuver without warning her, so she couldn’t put up her shield in time and—ser, wait—she said—!”

He knows what Aeron probably told the messenger, same as he knows she’ll probably frown at him for coming all the way down to investigate the matter himself, but he has never been very good at keeping calm or still when Aeron goes and gets herself into trouble. Navigating to the infirmary takes longer than it should. He gets turned around at least once. When he finally arrives, there is a handful of new recruits lingering outside the entrance, all of them still dressed in their gear; all of them murmuring to each other as they take turns looking into the windows. Alistair clears his throat. The recruits seem to jump in unison.

“Is the commander still in there?”

Nods ripple through the group. They shuffle aside without a word to let him pass. Some of them wear guilty expressions. The healer standing by the bed where Aeron lies continues his work as Alistair enters, blocking her attempt to prop herself up.

“I thought I told her to say I was fine.”

“To be fair, I didn’t…exactly…let her finish. But how bad is it?” Alistair settles on the opposite edge of the bed and takes her hand. The bruise already beginning to color her right cheek makes the strip of bandaging under her eye stand out. “She said it involved a shield—”

Aeron gives out a pained groan. “Kid’s got a bash like an angry horse kicks. Before I knew what happened, I was on the ground and it was spinning. There was blood. Someone fainted, I think. I must say, though—kind of proud.”

“Of course, you’d be,” he mutters. “And the bandaging? Don’t tell me they followed up with a sword.”

“It was the commander’s own shield, actually—appears the impact knocked it right into her and its placement left the edge to dig against her skin—but the wound was bloodier than it was deep,” the healer explains. “It’s more to her fortune that she still has her eye.”

“I’ll thank the Maker for that one.”

“Apart from that, she has some minor swelling on her head and some reported soreness in her arm and chest, but luckily, nothing appears to be broken.” The healer gestures to the leather training armor sitting discarded on another bed. “She probably has her gear to thank for that.”

“At the very least,” Alistair answers, nodding.

“I gave her something for the swelling and the pain, but I’m to recommend she take the rest of the day to recover. Let the medicine do its job in peace.”

“How soon do you think she’ll be able to get back on her feet?”

Aeron coughs a little. “ _She_ is still right here.”

The healer chuckles a little. “You should be on your feet as early as tomorrow, Commander, but I wouldn’t push it. If you still feel any pain, come see me again. I’m going to give the constable your evening dosage of what I gave you earlier. It’s not mandatory, but I imagine it will be easier to sleep if you aren’t in as much pain.”

“Always.” The Elf touches her cheek as gently as possible and still winces. “Damn… Be honest with me, Alistair; is it bad?”

“I’ve certainly seen you look…worse…” But Alistair has to focus his gaze on the pouch the healer gives him in order to say it, even if it _is_ true. “Can you stand? Actually, no—wait—don’t answer that—”

It always surprises him to remember how small and light she is. Any other day, Aeron would object to this treatment, would insist that he at least let her walk under her own power until none of the recruits can see her. Today, she says nothing; merely laces her fingers behind his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. Alistair feels the gaze of the recruits on them as they leave the infirmary. He keeps his gait as light as possible to avoid making her aches worse. Finding his way back to their bedroom is easy. She winces as he sets her down on the bed and it puts a small knot of guilt in his stomach.

“Sorry.”

“It’s not you. It just… It’s a throbbing pain.” Aeron sits up, shoulders slightly hunched. “Damn.”

“You should lie down,” Alistair tells her as he kneels in front of her. It takes a bit of coaxing to get her boots off. Her hand grips his shoulder for support. “I thought the healer gave you something for the pain.”

“He did. It still hurts.”

A small sound of disappointment leaves him. “Maybe I could… I mean, he didn’t say how soon I could give you more—”

“Don’t worry about it. Whatever he gave me…” Aeron rubs her stomach. “I don’t feel quite right.”

“Like you might be sick?” Alistair asks.

“I don’t think so. Just strange. It’s been a while since…” She pulls the drawstring on her trousers and shuffles them down past her hips. “Bring me something more comfortable?”

He goes to his own closet for that, pulling one of his older nightshirts. Aeron says something about it being a pity, but precisely what _it_ is escapes him.

“What?”

“I said—” She makes a pained sound. “Help me with this—? I knew I should have worn something buttoned today, but under that armor…”

The ghost of a bruise darkens her shoulder, spreading a little ways to her collarbone. Her forearm bears stronger evidence of impact, but even Aeron counts her blessings that it is still in one piece.

“Yes, well, maybe we can spin that into a lesson about wearing good armor or… I don’t know.” Alistair holds up the nightshirt. “Will this do?”

She dares to smile at him, though he wonders how much it must make her face hurt. “You know me too well.”

“I don’t think I would be a proper…” _husband if I didn’t_ , is how he wants to finish the sentence, but he just clears his throat and collects her discarded clothes. “You should get some rest.”

“Stay with me? I hear affection is as effective a treatment as poultices.”

Tempting. Very tempting. “That’s your expert opinion, is it?”

“It’s true!” She says, lying down again. “Very true.”

And how could he refuse? Why would he? There is a stack of papers on his desk that require reading—reports and requests and dozens of other things—but perhaps they can wait just a touch longer. Just until after Aeron falls asleep, perhaps.

“Let me put your clothes away first.”

“Just toss them in the nearest chair. Don’t even…” Behind him, Alistair hears her shift on the bed, pictures her waving a dismissive hand or perhaps curling up. After a beat of silence, she quietly adds, “What is that?”

“Hm? What is what, my love?”

“On the table.”

Alistair freezes. In the rush to tend to the infirmary, in his concern for her well-being—

It only takes turning around to confirm it. Inwardly, he curses at his own ineptitude.

“That’s…ah… Well, I—it was—I-I… Oh, hell.” He sighs. “Aeron—”

He goes to her, settles on his side of the bed with his back to her. The silence is uneven—not so much uncomfortable as reflective of Alistair’s own sheepishness. She calls his name softly, tentatively. No use hiding his intentions anymore, is there? No point to it. Items in hand, he lies down. He turns to face her.

“You know, I had this whole thing planned out down to the letter. I had things memorized. I was going to compare you to a rose again, there was going to be a joke about anniversaries involved…and then I was going to take one knee and I’d…ask. It was going to be perfect.”

“Perfect,” Aeron echoes.

“Yes. It was going to be perfect. I… Well, we’ve never quite been perfect, I know—we’ve always been slightly off with the timing, practically from the very first—” Alistair gives a little huff. “I mean, the first time we even _kissed_ , we were _in the middle_ of storming Redcliffe Castle!”

She laughs, though it also makes her wince. “I remember that. And there was also the first night we spent together.”

“Which I don’t regret, obviously, but I just… The point is, I wanted this to be right. Perfect. I don’t know. I wanted to do those things—those perfect little romantic gestures others always talk about—and then propose, and then… I don’t know. Maybe it would turn out that you’d say no and I would cry. _Or_ , even better, maybe you’d say _yes_. In which case, I would still cry.

“Either way,” Alistair finishes, “lots of crying on my part that we would never tell any of the other Wardens about because I like having them believe I’m manly and tough.”

Aeron laughs again. The silence is less uncomfortable. She reaches out, hand open until Alistair puts the box in her palm. He watches her study the ruby set into the silverite band; watches her hold it up to the light, tilt it this way and that. His heart beats nervousness into the rest of him. Silently, he prays. And prays. And prays.

And then she meets his eyes and slips the ring over her left finger.

“It fits.”

“Indeed, it does.” A little smile breaks across Alistair’s face. “But, um…just so we’re clear, does this mean—?”

His heart trades nervousness for fluttering joy as Aeron presses her mouth to his. He wraps his arms around her, pulls her close, smiles again when the kiss breaks.

“So it does,” he says.

Aeron nods. She brushes away the first of his tears with the back of her hand. “Indeed, it does.”


End file.
